I'll be Holmes for Christmas (or Checkmate, Brother)
by PipMer
Summary: The Holmes brothers' rivalry continues as Mycroft manipulates and Sherlock schemes. The result? Christmas Dinner, Mummy, and men in suits. What more could one want? Sequel to "A Chess Game Between Brothers." Pre-slash, Sherlock/John


**Author's Notes: **This is in response to a prompt made on my tumblr by maladroitoracle: _ Any chance of you continuing that Sherlock Christmas fic? I love reading about Sherlock's mother but I'd be happy with anything you wrote!_

The fic referred to in the prompt is "A Chess Game Between Brothers." You probably should read that one first to know what's going on. But not to worry, that one is nowhere near the monster that this one is.

Not only is this a response to maladroitoracle's prompt, it also serves as a gift in celebration of her earning her MA, and also as a get-well-soon fic. It is dedicated as well to prettybirdy979, since it's a continuation of her prompt, and she specifically requested men in suits :D

Please excuse any errors in British terminology or in time needed to travel from London to Sussex, since this is unbeta'd and unbrit-picked. I did the best I could, and I hope it satisfies.

**To euphoracle: *laughs* Well, Happy Holidays to you as well. I still hope the New Year showers you with blessings. Maybe then you'll no longer feel the need to project your own feelings of bitterness and dissatisfaction onto one whose only crime was to write a gift fic for a friend. Hugs and kisses!**

* * *

"Hold still, John; Good Lord, you'd think you've never had to purchase a suit before."

John swallowed. "Well, to be fair, I've never tried on a suit before that costs more than I make in a month, Sherlock. I still feel funny spending your brother's money. Are you sure you're allowed to use his government card? That seems a little dodgy to me."

Sherlock sniffed. "Don't worry about Mycroft, John; he deserves whatever expense that is thrown his way, for forcing you to do this."

"He's not forcing me to do anything, Sherlock. I want to do this. I want to meet your mother."

"You're a terrible liar, John. I saw your face when Mycroft mentioned spending Christmas dinner with her. You went white as a sheet. You definitely do _not_ want to do this."

"Remind me why we are, then?"

Sherlock's hands stilled in the middle of performing a Windsor knot on John's silk neck-tie. His eyes flicked to John's face for a split second before attending once more to the task at hand. "Mummy would think it very rude if you were to decline her invitation. She'd be under the impression that my best friend and partner has the manners of a peasant and is therefore unfit for polite company. I can't have her thinking that of you; it would reflect poorly on me."

John snorted. "Right. Only you would refer to a group of people as peasants in this day and age. In case you haven't noticed, compared to you that's exactly what I am. And more to the point, why would that make _your _attendance necessary?"

Sherlock stepped back, admiring his handiwork. He tilted his head, taking in the full image presented before him. John Watson, in a charcoal-grey Armani suit, white shirt and hunter-green tie. A matching handkerchief poked out of his left breast pocket.

Fantastic.

"So?" John spread his arms. "How do I look?"

"Turn around and see for yourself."

John smiled and turned around to face the full length mirror. His eyes widened as he took in his reflection. Not bad, Watson, he thought to himself. A small smile tugged at his lips. Not bad at all.

John's eyes met the reflection of his friend's as he made a minor adjustment to his tie. "You didn't answer me. You haven't attended Christmas dinner with your family for years. Why now?"

Sherlock cleared his throat as his eyes suddenly found the ceiling particularly interesting. "How would it look if you attended my family's gala and I myself wasn't present? That hardly projects the correct image, does it? I wouldn't want people to think – "

"Think what?" John smirked. "That you have no sense of familial obligation? That you're thoughtless, self-absorbed and totally lacking in social graces? People _already _think that. Besides, since when do you care what people think?"

Sherlock's gaze locked on his again, one eyebrow raised. John smiled.

"Want to know what _I_ think?" John asked. He turned around to face Sherlock, to properly look him in the eye. "I think that you're going because you know I'd be uncomfortable there with a group of people I don't know, in unfamiliar surroundings; people who I perceive as being levels above me class-wise. You know that I would be perfectly miserable and anxious the entire time, and that Mycroft's presence would only make it worse. Sherlock Holmes, I believe that you are coming with me because you want to provide moral support. You want to be my _friend." _John beamed at his success in deducing the great detective.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He sauntered a few steps forward until he was in John's personal space, looming over his friend in a way that he knew made John uneasy. He lowered his voice and rumbled, "Do you think you can _read _me, John? _Me?" _

He raked an appreciative glance over John's body. "What am I saying right now? Hmm? How well do you really know me?"

John swallowed as he was forced to tilt his head up. "Sherlock?"

"As always, you miss everything of importance. Don't you see?"

Concern replaced the brief hint of annoyance on John's face. "See what? Sherlock, are you okay?'

"Me? Oh yes. There's nothing wrong with me. You see, John, Mycroft may have won the first round, but I will win the second."

John's nose wrinkled in confusion. "What? The second round of what?"

"The _game, _John. Mycroft won the first round by forcing me to participate in this charade. But I'll beat him this time." Sherlock took slow, measured steps as he started to circle John.

"I'm not letting you go alone with Mycroft because that would send the wrong message." Sherlock's velvety baritone sent shivers up John's spine. "That would be conceding that you're his to do with as he pleases. But that is unacceptable." Sherlock maintained the distance between them as he continued his orbit, which is to say he continued to violate personal boundaries. His breath tickled the hairs on the back of John's neck as Sherlock walked behind him.

"You're not his; you'll never be his. You're not his prize to flaunt in front of Mummy and the rest of our clan. Do you know why that is, John?"

John stifled a faint whimper as he shook his head. "No," he whispered shakily.

Sherlock continued pacing until he was once again in front of John. He smiled. He leaned in and whispered in John's ear. "Because you're _mine."_

And that turned out to be _exactly _the wrong thing to say.

* * *

As promised, promptly at one o'clock on Christmas Day, a sleek black car sat idling at the kerb in front of 221B. Mycroft sat in the passenger seat, calmly buffing his fingernails as a smug smile graced his lips. A sense of accomplishment settled in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't unlike the sensation he got after having eaten his fill of sponge cake. It could almost be described as contentment, if Mycroft Holmes were capable of such a thing. After ten years of threats, cajoling and bribes, he had finally succeeded in bringing Sherlock home to Mummy for Christmas dinner. And all it had taken was appealing to both his jealousy towards, and his regard for, Dr Watson. He had never been so glad that Sherlock had ignored his admonishments against sentiment and attachment.

His head lifted from his task as familiar voices carried from the outdoors, intruding into his thoughts. His brother's clipped baritone was interspersed with a firm yet resigned tenor. The sound of the boot being opened was followed by a brief increase in volume as packages were haphazardly placed inside. Mycroft sighed; his sanctuary was about to be invaded. It was going to be a long ninety minutes.

Sherlock's petulance oozed into the car the second he opened the door and slid in. John's nervousness was tangible as he scooted in from the other side. The two must be having a row again, Mycroft thought as he glanced in the rear-view mirror, taking in the way the two were angled away from each other with crossed arms and matching scowls.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock, John," Mycroft said amiably, turning around to give them both a smile. "Merry Christmas."

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock spat.

"Sherlock," John admonished. He gave Mycroft a tight smile. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft. "

"Having a little domestic, are we?" Mycroft asked pleasantly.

"We agreed to come, Mycroft; we didn't agree to chat along the way. Let's just get this over with, shall we?"

"Why, Sherlock! I thought you said that you would love for Mummy to finally meet John. Why the sour face?"

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible into the folds of his scarf.

"Excuse me?"

"I _said _that that was a week ago. Tell your driver he's going the wrong way, Essex is in the other direction."

Mycroft smirked. "Why, so it is. It's a good thing we're not going there then, isn't it?"

Sherlock shot up from his slouch and shot daggers at the back of his brother's head. "What? Where are we going, then? Mycroft, I swear..."

"Mummy wasn't in the mood for throwing a big to-do this year, Sherlock. She wanted something more cosy and intimate. Something your _doctor_ would be more comfortable with."

"We're going to the cottage? In Sussex? _For Christmas dinner?"_

"Yes. "

"Surely there's not enough room for…"

"There is plenty of room for four people."

The silence lasted for exactly 10.8 seconds before all hell broke loose.

* * *

After thirty minutes of continuous shouting by one Holmes brother and calm chastisement by the other, John felt his ears ring in the sudden silence. A silence that lasted for the remaining hour of their trip. Once again, John was caught in the middle, between his impossible best friend and said friend's infuriating brother. Both of whom apparently felt justified in using him as a pawn in their never-ending chess game, aka Holmes Family Feud. It wasn't fair, since John had never learned to play the game.

John sighed and rubbed his temple. Things had not been going well ever since he and Sherlock had returned from his fitting session at the tailor's, during which Sherlock had essentially called John _his prize. _What sane person did that?

Oh, right; this was Sherlock Holmes. Sanity didn't even come into it.

He was grateful for one thing, though. He wasn't going to have to endure a house full of strangers; not only that, he wasn't going to have to endure a house full of _Holmes's._ His relief would have been palpable if he hadn't just been privy to the most outlandish tantrum Sherlock had ever engaged in. He still wasn't quite sure what had him so riled up. Surely Sherlock was happy that he didn't have to make nice with his entire family, wasn't he?

John let his head fall back and his eyes slide shut. He shut off his brain and stopped trying to solve the unfathomable puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. He needed to gather his courage and muster his strength before meeting the family matriarch.

* * *

Margery Avery-Holmes, sixty-five years young, was placing the just-finished dessert in the refrigerator when she heard the car pull into the driveway. She glanced at her reflection in the oven door and re-arranged some of her errant ginger locks. A youthful face with sparkling sky-blue eyes beamed back at her. She smiled and felt her heart skip a beat in anticipation. Her boys were finally here! And the youngest was bringing his famous companion with him.

Mycroft had often regaled her with tales of Sherlock and this John Watson, who was both a doctor and an army officer. Sherlock had apparently done well for himself. It was about time he had found someone to settle down with. After all, he was already thirty-eight years old; he wasn't getting any younger. Although to be fair, Sherlock had been doubly blessed with both astounding attractiveness and unearthly intelligence. He should have been able to have his pick of partners, regardless of his age. Men and women both should have been clamouring for his attention. But he had also been cursed with a prickly personality that would have put his father to shame.

Well, no matter; they were here now. Margery smoothed her hands down her calf-length emerald green dress. She wondered, not for the first time, if she was simply a foolish old woman trying to dress, look and behave like someone thirty years younger. The outfit she had chosen for today was off the shoulder and very form-fitting. Perhaps it was entirely inappropriate to wear such a thing for an intimate family gathering.

The fleeting moment of self-doubt was easily cast aside; like her youngest, she never wasted time second-guessing her actions. Life was short, and _her sons were here._

She practically flew from the kitchen to the front door in her eagerness.

* * *

"…wouldn't have bothered dressing up if I'd known there was only going to be the four of us. I don't know what your agenda is, Mycroft, but you'd better believe that I'm going to best you, whatever it is. Keep your eyes on your king, because it's in danger of being captured very soon."

Mycroft laughed in delight. "You may play a mean game of chess, Sherlock, but you've never managed to capture my king. I always beat you in the end."

Sherlock smirked smugly. "Oh, really? Remember Irene? What about Moriarty? "

Mycroft scowled. "Those are instances of you pulling the wool over my eyes. By cheating, mind you. They aren't true examples of strategy or genius. Or of fair play, for that matter."

Sherlock grinned. "Whatever gave you the impression that I would play fair? John, don't bother continuing to pretend you're asleep. We're pulling into the driveway now, so get yourself together."

John sighed as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. He gazed blearily at his friend. "Here, are we?"

"Brilliant, John. Thank you for stating the obvious. Are you ready?"

John looked out the window and felt his tiredness evaporate like liquid nitrogen being introduced into a twenty-degree room. When he envisioned a Holmes house, nothing like what greeted his eyes came to mind. A gingerbread-style, dusty-rose cottage situated in the middle of nowhere. Smoke from a brick chimney completed the bucolic image. And were those… bee hives?

"Yes, John. Quit gaping. Come along now, Mummy's waiting."

John felt like ice water had just been dumped over his head. He shivered. "Right. Need a hand with the packages?"

"No, of course not. Emerson will get them."

Mycroft coughed. "Actually, Mummy didn't bring Emerson with her. She gave him the day off. In fact, she gave him the entire week off."

Sherlock considered. "Perhaps Mrs Sigerson would – "

Mycroft shook his head. "You misunderstand. Mummy didn't bring anybody with her. She's done all the preparations herself, including the cooking. "

Sherlock's couldn't look any more appalled if he had just been told that Moriarty had named his first born son after him. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gulping for air. "But… who… "

"We'll manage on our own just fine, Sherlock. Come now, you don't want John thinking you grew up with a sense of entitlement, do you?"

John coughed into his hand to cover up his extreme amusement. "No, I certainly haven't got that impression after living with him for three years. I'm sure he's perfectly capable of tending to his own needs. I just haven't seen evidence of it yet."

"Yes, if you both are quite finished with the comedy routine, it's time to brave the cold." Sherlock snapped his gloves back on.

"You go on up and introduce John to Mummy, Sherlock. I'll have Simmons help bring up everything."

John demurred, "That's not necessary, Mycroft, we can handle our own things."

"No, Mycroft's right; he needs the exercise. Come along, John."

John rolled his eyes, shrugged apologetically at Mycroft, and opened his door to follow Sherlock up the driveway. The nervousness that had been kept at bay during the few seconds of levity rushed back into him full force. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and swallowed.

He tried to distract himself by taking in the quaint little house he was making his way towards. It was two storeys, the second one nestled cosily underneath the eaves. It was perhaps 1500 square feet at the most. What it lacked in size it made up for in charm and ambiance. Two perfectly symmetrical cone-shaped fir trees stood on either side of the front door. In spite of the daylight, they were decked with twinkling blue and white fairy lights, and topped with silver stars. A large pine wreath with a huge red bow graced the teal door. Above the wreath was a wooden plaque, proclaiming, '**When you're here, you're Holmes.'** More unlit fairy lights were festooned around the door and windows, and along the eaves, just waiting for nightfall to be revealed in all their glory. John tried and failed to suppress a grin.

"So I didn't know your family had a place in the country," John remarked as he hurried to catch up to his friend. "Did you come here often?"

"Hmm? Oh. We did, for a time, until… It's been a long while since I've been here."

Before they got within ten feet of the house, the door flew open with a bang and a blur of green vaulted itself into Sherlock's arms. John looked on in surprise as his friend wrapped the woman in an enthusiastic hug. The two stood locked in their embrace for a full two minutes before he pulled away. John's breath caught at the expression on Sherlock's face; he had never before seen such a display of tenderness, love and joy. Anybody who claimed Sherlock didn't have a heart didn't know what they were talking about.

Sherlock kept both of Margery's hands clasped in his own as he turned to John. "Mummy, I'd like you to meet my friend and flatmate, Dr John Watson. John, this is my mother, Margery Holmes."

John could barely contain his awe when finally faced with the mysterious and illustrious "Mummy". She was tall and stately, not much shorter than Sherlock himself. Her vibrant hair was drawn up in an elegant chignon style. Penetrating, intelligent eyes pierced him with a knowing look, one that John was all too familiar with. He tried not to feel intimidated as he offered his hand.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs Holmes," he said graciously. "I'm deeply honoured you would see fit to include me in your family's festivities."

Margery ignored John's hand and swept in to place a gentle kiss on both his cheeks. She squeezed his shoulders. "Let's not stand on ceremony, Dr Watson. Please call me Margery. And the honour is all mine, I'm sure."

John blushed. He grabbed Margery's hand as it left his shoulder and brought it up to his lips for a kiss before declaring, "In that case, I insist that you call me John."

Margery smiled. "Am I being subjected to that infamous Watson charm, John? I've heard of your exploits as 'Three-Continents Watson'. Should my son feel threatened?" she asked in a teasing manner.

John's jaw dropped. He glanced nervously at Sherlock, whose expression remained blank. "How - how did you hear about that? Only my army mates know that nickname."

Margery laughed, the sound high and pleasant. "Oh, Mycroft can find out anything about anybody. I've heard so much about you! Don't worry, I'm not scandalised. I remember what it was like to be young. I don't hold it against you. I know how devoted you are now to Sherlock; I'm sure you'd never cheat on him."

"Oh. Oh, no, Mrs – Margery, it's not like that. Sherlock and I are – "

"Companions and partners," Sherlock cut in. John looked at him in disbelief. Sherlock looked back, face unreadable. Was he being deliberately vague? Or was he implying that what his mother thought was actually true?

"Merry Christmas, Mummy," Mycroft called as he and his driver walked up with arms full of packages. "I'd give you a hug, but I first need to rid myself of this burden. "

"Thank you, dear. I'm afraid I went a little overboard this year, I hope you boys don't mind." She gave John a small smile. "This is the first time in ten years I've had both of my boys here with me for Christmas. You must be a good influence on Sherlock, John. I'm so glad he has you now." She sighed happily.

John didn't have it in him to correct her assumption. He decided he would follow Sherlock's lead on this one, and act accordingly. As long as he didn't get it into his head that John was his _prize._

That errant thought instantly deflated his mood. It was an unpleasant reminder that things still remained unresolved between him and his friend. He quashed the feeling and followed Sherlock and his mother into the house. He – they – would deal with it later. He really didn't want to agonise over the state of their friendship on Christmas Day , thank you very much.

* * *

As Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and handed it to his mother, John caught himself admiring the smart image his friend projected in his suit. The coal-black trousers and jacket weren't new, but the blood-red rayon shirt was. Sherlock had carelessly left the top three buttons undone, which wasn't unusual; what was unusual was the way John's eyes kept roaming to the small patch of milk-white skin visible as a result. The contrast made Sherlock look even more stunning than normal. An unfamiliar twinge of something he hadn't felt before, at least in relation to Sherlock, stirred in his chest. It was similar to the emotion he had felt while listening to Sherlock's explanation of the why and how of his faked death, and yet it was wholly unique in and of itself. The only word that came to mind was adoration, but that wasn't right. He didn't _adore _Sherlock. He admired him, certainly. Respect? Yes, of course. That certainly didn't explain this unexpected, sudden warmth flooding his senses.

John blinked as awareness filtered back in. He found himself being pinned by Sherlock's icy grey stare. His friend's mouth quirked in a knowing smirk, and all John could think was: _oh shit._

* * *

Dinner was served promptly at four-thirty. John looked on the spread with amazement. Margery had prepared everything herself. A ten-pound turkey sat in the centre of the table (Sherlock couldn't refrain from making a comment about how anything less would have left Mycroft unsatisfied). A colourful green-bean casserole was present, as well as cranberry sauce, mounds of mashed potatoes and piles of rolls. John was sure there was too much food for just four people, but both Holmes brothers dug into their food with singular relish. Sherlock even had third helpings of everything. John couldn't believe his eyes.

And the interaction between Margery and her two sons was surprising, to say the least. The tension that was always present between Sherlock and Mycroft was barely there. They both clearly adored their mother, and it showed in their solicitous attitude and lively conversation. John was content to sit by as a spectator and just listen, rapt with attention. He smiled to himself. He was learning much about Sherlock that he would have never found out otherwise. It was very eye-opening.

Sherlock had never mentioned his father to John, and he hadn't been alluded to here yet either. Curiosity burned within him, but he was too polite to bring it up. He stole a glance at Margery's left hand and noticed her plain gold band. Its presence told John that Mr Holmes' absence wasn't due to any sort of abandonment. He deduced that Margery was most probably a widow who had loved her husband dearly, and missed him to this day.

As if reading his mind, Margery turned to him and stated, "I'm so glad Sherlock has you now, John. I'm afraid that he takes after his father, rest his soul, in the personality department. Don't get me wrong, my Richard was a wonderful husband and an even better father, but he certainly could rub people the wrong way. I had despaired of Sherlock ever finding someone who could smooth out the rough edges, so to speak. And now he has you," she finished brightly, flashing a white smile as she took a sip of her wine.

An irritated look settled on Sherlock's features. "He's not my minder, Mummy. I did manage for thirty-three years before he came along."

"Yes, exactly; you managed. You didn't thrive, however, until after his arrival. Now, John, tell me more about yourself. I've already heard so much about you, and I'm a great fan of your blog. Tell me more."

"Alright, well… what would you like to know?"

Margery smiled. "Everything."

* * *

The meal was finished off with luscious home-made cheesecake topped with strawberries and served with Irish coffee. When John took his first bite of the dessert, the distinct taste of Kahlua burst upon his taste buds. It was simply heavenly. He closed his eyes in rapture.

"Oh god, Margery; this is divine. Have you always been such a good cook?"

Margery blushed. "Oh, heavens no, dear; not always. It wasn't until after the boys left home and I lost Richard that I took it up. I didn't cope well with 'empty nest syndrome', and after my husband died I went through quite a severe bout of depression. Cooking and baking became my therapy."

"Don't be so modest, Mummy," Sherlock piped up. "She has won awards in three different counties, John, with her Bananas Foster and cherries jubilee. She is famous for her flambés."

Margery waved her hand in a self-deprecating manner. "I wouldn't say famous. Not like my handsome son and his loyal blogger, at any rate. You two must be in demand constantly. However do you find the time to indulge in a little romance now and then?"

John said, "Well, to be honest, _I _occasionally find the time –"

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "I think it's time we retired to the sitting room for gifts, don't you think, Mummy?"

The glare John shot Sherlock's way could have set fire to an ice cube. As soon as Margery left to tend to things in the next room, he hissed, "What are you playing at? Do you actually _want _her to think that we're together?"

Sherlock frowned. "We _are _together, John; I don't see what the problem is."

"_You _don't see – We are _not – _Sherlock. In what way are we together?"

Sherlock blinked in confusion. "In every way that matters."

"Sherlock, why don't you and I take care of the dishes while Mummy and John spend more time getting to know each other? It's the least we can do after all her effort and preparations."

Sherlock pushed his chair back from the table in a violent motion, giving his brother a tight smile as he did so. "Yes, why don't we? I always look forward to spending quality time together, brother, especially during the holidays. We can make up for the other 364 days of manipulation and overbearing nosiness with one day of forced cheer and supposed good will. After you, Mycroft."

John shook his head as the two brothers headed into the kitchen. Honestly, he would never understand the dynamic between those two. He had given up trying years ago. He made his way into the sitting room, patting his full belly and stifling a yawn. Even with the tension between him and Sherlock, he felt a sense of contentment settle over him like a warm cloak. A good meal and titillating conversation had really hit the spot, bringing back memories of Christmases past.

The sitting room was very festive. A merry fire was crackling in the fireplace, lending light and cheer to the atmosphere. The lights on the tree had been turned on; Margery was kneeling next to it arranging the gifts underneath. She looked up at John's entrance and threw him a radiant smile.

"Ah, John. Have my sons decided to leave us alone for a bit?"

John smiled as he sat on the sofa. "It would seem so. They must have been a handful, growing up."

"Oh, yes. That they were," Margery said as she sedately dusted off her hands. She walked over to the mantelpiece and retrieved two brandy snifters and a decanter of cognac before walking over and sitting next to John. Silently she poured the alcohol and handed one glass to John. She raised an eyebrow as she lifted hers and said, "Cheers. To a very Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year."

John clinked his glass to hers and replied, "Cheers, Margery. Happy Holidays to you as well."

Margery took a swallow of her drink before setting it down, angling her body to give John an appraising look. "Mycroft isn't the only one who's told me about you, you know," she said deliberately. "Sherlock has talked about you as well." She paused as she considered her next words.

"I know what my son is like, John; he rarely puts his emotions on display, especially affection. He's been known to be very careless with his relationships and in the way he treats people, even those he cares about. You've probably wondered more than once what your place truly is in his life. Whether he truly appreciates you."

John stared at her. So this is where Sherlock gets it from, he thought. This unnerving ability to read people with such accuracy after such a short time. Feeling like he could be nothing but honest with her, he gave a small nod.

Margery gave him a sad smile. "I can tell you this much with utmost conviction: that boy loves you with such intensity that it makes my chest hurt. I was never really sure he had the capacity for such depth of feeling, but now that I've seen the two of you together, there is no doubt in my mind. The way he looks at you…" She trailed off as her eyes became unfocussed, her thoughts clearly on some time in the past. When she spoke again, her voice was very soft and wistful. "It reminds me of the way his father used to look at me."

She raised her eyes to John's, her expression clearing. "If you are loved by a Holmes, John, you can count yourself as both the most blessed person on earth… and the most tried. You find that your entire being has become subsumed within their own, and that you can no more fight it than you can fight gravity's pull. You feel that you have no will of your own, no agency. "

She leaned in and made sure that she had John's full attention. Her light liquid eyes held his dark blue ones. "But you'll also find that you can't imagine anything else, and that you wouldn't have it any other way. It might not be what you would have chosen for yourself, but it will be exactly what you need. And it will be better than anything you could have ever hoped for. The price you will find yourself paying will be worth it in spades, in the end."

John's head was spinning. Ever since Margery had said the word 'love' in relation to him and Sherlock, he had been fighting the urge to interrupt and set her straight in no uncertain terms. When she started talking about 'the way he looks at you', he felt like his head was going to explode. How could she have got things so completely wrong? When she finally finished speaking, he closed his eyes and brought both hands up to rub at his temples. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

When he finally felt like he had regained a semblance of control, he opened his eyes and reached for Margery's hands. He gently said, "Margery, the only looks he gives me with any degree of regularity are ones of exasperation and impatience. I don't know what you think you're seeing, but I think it has more to do with what you _want _to see than with what's actually there."

"You're wrong," she said with such abruptness that he drew back in surprise. "What is it that he's always saying? 'You see, but do not observe'? You're too close, John; take a step back and really look for once. I think you'll be surprised at what's previously escaped your notice."

John shook his head. "He sees me as someone he can order to do things he's too lazy to do himself. I'm a convenience, nothing more. He calls me his 'conductor of light', whatever that means."

Margery stilled. She squeezed his hands lightly. She considered him for a moment before speaking again.

"A mother's not supposed to have favourites, you know," she said.

John smiled bitterly. "Yes, I know. But they always do, don't they?"

"Yes. It's not something we can control, really. It just … happens. Part of it might have something to do with him being the youngest. My baby, you understand. But with Sherlock, it's more than that. He's always been so… vulnerable; all I've ever wanted to do was protect him, make life easier for him. Both of my boys are brilliant, but Sherlock also inherited his father's difficulties relating to people. As a result, he's had to maintain a certain distance, and he learned to thrive on his own. He's never really needed other people. To admit to needing someone is paramount to showing weakness, and he's learned never to do that.

"So when you say that he calls you his 'conductor of light'… he's admitting that very thing to you, John. He's telling you that he believes you make him a better person. That he's so much better off with than without you. What higher compliment could there be, coming from Sherlock Holmes?"

John looked down at his drink, feeling distinctly uneasy and uncomfortable. His thoughts and emotions were in turmoil, and he had no idea what to do with them.

"We're not sleeping together," he blurted out.

"Of course not, dear. As far as I can tell, Sherlock is asexual. What on earth does that have to do with anything? Love is love, John, in whatever form it takes. You'd be a fool to turn your back on it, when it's being offered to you so freely."

Before John could reply, his attention was drawn away by the sound of the wind outside picking up and a rapid staccato against the window pane and roof. He looked up and stared out into the night. Droplets of moisture glistened against the glass.

Sherlock strode out of the dining room followed closely by Mycroft. He walked up to the window and framed his hands against the glass as he peered out. Mycroft was swiftly checking his mobile.

"Wonderful!" Sherlock spat as he whipped around to fix his brother with a searing glare. "You planned this, didn't you?"

Mycroft sighed, eyes never leaving his phone. "Really, Sherlock, how much power do you think I have? Even I can't control the weather."

"No, but you can check the forecast days in advance. You _knew _this was going to happen. It's all part of whatever scheme you've concocted."

"Yes, I have nothing better to do myself than be stuck here in Sussex for an unknown length of time with my temperamental little brother and his blogger. What possible reason could I have for wanting this to happen?"

"I don't know, but I'll find out, and I'll thwart you."

Mycroft ignored him. "Apparently London was beset with freezing rain an hour after we left, which has since turned to snow. The sleet has now made its way here, making the return trip an extremely dangerous proposition. I suggest that we retire here for the evening and make our way back when the weather clears, hopefully some time tomorrow." He snapped his phone shut and placed it back inside his jacket.

"That is _completely _unacceptable," Sherlock snarled. "There's no room for us here."

Margery piped up, "Of course there is. I'm in my bedroom, Mycroft will take his old one, and you and John will share yours. Will that be a problem?"

"I'd be more than happy to share," Mycroft chimed in.

Sherlock's look was thunderous. "Oh no. No, no, no… that will _not _be happening. There's no way I'm sharing with you, Mycroft."

"Well then, perhaps John and I can – "

"NO! Absolutely not! I told you before, Mycroft; _you can't have him."_

The room rang with Sherlock's last words. The ensuing silence was deafening.

Sherlock turned to John. "Not good?" he asked in a small voice.

John huffed in amusement. "Yeah, Sherlock; a bit. It's alright; I don't mind sharing with you. It's not like we've never done it before."

"Yes, but this time there's only one bed."

Well, that was going to be awkward. "Oh. Well. Right. We'll just make the best of it, I guess."

Sherlock scowled as he stomped over to an armchair and threw himself in it, drawing his knees up to his chin in an epic sulk. "I suppose I could take the couch," he mumbled.

"No, Sherlock; like I said, it's fine. I don't mind, really. Or _I _could take the sofa, if you prefer."

Sherlock's gaze was withering. "I'm never the one who's bothered, remember?"

Shame suffused John's face in a brilliant shade of red. "I… I know, I just… forget it, yeah? It's… fine."

"I know it's fine."

John's head jerked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. Amusement had replaced his closed-off look, and his mouth was partially lifted in a smirk. John found himself breaking into a grin and Sherlock responded with a low chuckle. John replied, "It's _all _fine," and then they both dissolved into giggles.

Mycroft heaved a put-upon sigh. "Yes, charming. Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?"

This only brought on a fresh set of giggles.

"Honestly!" Mycroft snapped. "Sherlock, you're thirty-eight, and John, you're forty-three. How is this behaviour in any way appropriate?"

"Appropriate? Shall we talk about appropriate, Mycroft?" Sherlock's deep chuckles immediately faded away. He sat up straight in his chair, hands gripping the armrests. "How appropriate do you think it is to pepper your interactions with John and me with lies of omission?"

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

John and Margery sat rigid next to each other, drinks clasped in their hands, eyes darting from Sherlock to Mycroft as if they were watching a tennis tournament.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Mycroft. " Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Your attempts at controlling by behaviour are transparent. You conveniently forget to mention that we aren't going to Holmes Manor for Christmas, but rather to our cottage here. You also let me assume that dinner will be attended by the usual suspects made up of various members of our extended family, when it reality…" he waved his hand to encompass the room,"… it's meant to be a much more intimate affair. The thing I couldn't figure out, was why?"

The firelight chased back the shadows and illuminated Mycroft's face, revealing what he had been hoping to conceal. His mouth twisted into a frown as he said softly, "You know why."

"Indeed I do, now. You were trying to put my king in checkmate. But it's my turn now, not yours. You insisted that we play by the rules, so we shall."

John shook his head in confusion. "I don't understand. What's going on? What was Mycroft trying to do?"

"What he does best, John: manipulation. He appealed to two things: my sentiment and my pride. I have to give him credit, he certainly knew what areas to exploit."

John shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand."

"I wouldn't expect you to. If you did, it would show that your thoughts tread the same paths his do. That would mean that you were just as ruthless and relentless as he is. I would rather not think you capable of such things.

"At any rate, Mycroft figured out a fool-proof way of getting me to agree to come home for Christmas." He threw a look of apology towards his mother. "Mummy, please believe I was never trying to avoid your company; never that. It's just that after Father… after that Christmas Eve…"

Sherlock felt his throat close up. He fought back a rising sense of panic as he sought to bring the sudden onset of his emotions under control.

"I understand, dear." His mother's dulcet tones reached out and anchored him, sublimating his turbulent feelings into ones that he could manage.

He drew a shuddering breath and continued, eyes focussed on John the entire time.

"Mycroft correctly ascertained that if I thought you were going to be dumped into the midst of a typical Holmesian Christmas, with only himself as a familiar point of reference, that _sentiment _would compel me to come with you. To, as you said earlier, provide _moral support. _

"But sentiment isn't my only weakness. He also knows that I consider it a point of pride that you _choose _to be inmy company. Not out of any sense of obligation, but because of simple friendship. I have an accepting immediate family, but my extended family is not so tolerant. They were the first ones to apply the labels 'freak' and 'sociopath' to me. If Mycroft were to show up in their presence with you in tow, they would all assume that you were _his _friend, minion, or whatever. My ego couldn't allow that, and he knew it."

Mycroft's features had relaxed into smugness as he sensed that Sherlock was about to concede the game, when a shocked gasp wiped the expression right off his face.

"Mycroft!" Margery exclaimed in a scandalised tone. "Is all of that true? Did you really stoop so low as to manipulate your baby brother into doing this?"

Mycroft's face fell. "Mummy, I never intended - "

"That's always the problem, isn't it, son? You 'never intended.' Isn't that exactly what you said to John when you tried to explain why you sold Sherlock out to that snake Moriarty?"

The blood rushed from Mycroft's face. "Mummy, please, I _assure _you that – "

"Don't bother," Margery said coldly. "You should know better, Mycroft Sherringford Holmes. You're the eldest; you're meant to be looking after your brother, not trying to get the better of him. You know very well that I would never expect anything of him that he was unable or unwilling to give. I am more than disappointed. I am _ashamed._"

All of the coldness, control and poise that defined Mycroft Holmes melted away in that moment. The slump of his shoulders and the bowing of his head spoke more clearly than words ever could.

"I was only trying to make you happy, Mummy," he whispered. "I just wanted you to have the Christmas you've been yearning for."

"You can't arrange that at the expense of your brother's peace of mind."

"Of course not," Mycroft mumbled. "I'm sorry, Mummy."

"Make sure it doesn't happen again. Now let's get on with the rest of our evening. Shall we open our gifts?"

When Margery rose to tend to everyone's packages, the brothers locked gazes. Mycroft's eyes widened as he took in Sherlock's triumphant smirk. Sherlock silently mouthed one word at him. Even John could tell what was being said; he rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Check."

* * *

"Well, your mother was right when she said she went overboard," John remarked as he eyed the pile of Christmas treasure neatly arranged in one corner of their room. Margery had made up for lost time and missed Christmases past. The three of them had received five gifts apiece.

"I'm flattered she got as many for me as she did for you and Mycroft. That was awfully generous of her."

"She considers you part of the family now," Sherlock remarked casually as he carefully hung his jacket up in the wardrobe. His striking red shirt, now fully on display, contrasted nicely with his black trousers and pale skin. John tried to avert his eyes, but he was mesmerised by the sight. He swallowed as his friend's long, graceful fingers reached for the buttons and slowly unfastened them, one by one.

John blinked. Ever since Margery had made mention of Sherlock's feelings for him, he had been distracted by thoughts he hadn't previously allowed himself to indulge in – or even knew he had, if he were being honest. Earlier, as he had sat in the midst of the Holmes family gift exchange, he had been helpless to stop his imagination from running rampant. Ruminations involving all five senses took up residence and refused to be dispelled.

What would Sherlock's chocolate curls feel like between his fingers? Would they be silky and fine, or thick and coarse? Would Sherlock even allow something so intimate to happen between them? If John were to rub his nose in the untidy mop, would it smell like fragrant pine needles, wild and primal and earthy, like the man himself? Or would it be the fruity, cloying scent of his expensive shampoo, used as a shield to conceal his true persona, much like the posh suits he wore to exude a false aura of restrained indifference? What would his lips taste like against his own? Would they be bitter and sour, reflective of the caustic words that dripped from them on a daily basis? Or would they perhaps be sweet and umami, reminiscent of the rare moments Sherlock had displayed empathy towards a victim or witness?

The images that now scrolled across the forefront of his mind started to veer decidedly into the erotic. A vision of his friend with his head thrown back in wanton abandon, pale expanse of his throat exposed, planted itself in his mind's eye. Sherlock's eyes were closed in ecstasy, and his deep baritone voice gasped John's name as he shuddered in his arms…

John bolted up, red-faced with shame, and grabbed the pile of neatly folded pyjamas. "I'll just go change in the loo," he stammered as he limped towards the door. Damn his leg, why did it have to choose this exact second to act up? If Sherlock hadn't yet picked up on his thoughts, this would be a dead give-away.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock rumbled, stopping John in his tracks. "It's not like we're going to strip naked. Besides, since when have you ever exhibited modesty in my presence? Stay."

The last word was an imperative, but instead of coming across as a command, the tone was spoken gently as a simple request. John shut his eyes for a brief moment before turning around.

He eyed the clothes in his arms with suspicion. "Don't you find it a little too convenient that one of the gifts your mother gave to all of us was a set of pyjamas? How did she know my size, do you think?"

Sherlock glanced at him in amusement, shirt now completely unbuttoned and revealing tantalising glimpses of a well-toned chest. He set to work on his cuffs. "You were just measured for a suit a week ago," he reminded John.

"Oh, right; and of course it follows that she would be able to obtain that information with no trouble. You Holmes's are a piece of work, all of you," John said without heat. He set the clothes down on the bed and started to undo his tie.

"Here, let me," Sherlock said. He walked over and, as his hand reached out, John let out an involuntary flinch. Sherlock halted briefly, giving John a look of concern before continuing his movements. He gently took hold of John's tie and deftly loosened it. The warmth of Sherlock's presence radiated onto John's skin and his breath ghosted over his forehead, causing minute movements of his hair.

"If you hadn't got the pyjamas as a gift, she would have just offered you some of my old clothes from when I was younger. There's a set that's been sitting in my dresser drawer for years, she would have just thrown them in the wash and given them to you after."

John laughed. "I'm sure I would have looked a sight in them; I'm not exactly your size."

Sherlock shrugged. "They're from when I was fourteen years old. I was shorter and chubbier then. They would have fit."

John snorted. "You say the most romantic things. Thanks for that."

When Sherlock was finished, he left the tie hanging around John's neck as he unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt, allowing his friend to finally breathe freely. Sherlock stepped back just a fraction and placed a hand on John's good shoulder, seeking eye contact. Their gazes met, and held for several minutes. Neither man was able to look away. Finally, Sherlock's other hand cupped John's cheek, thumb caressing his cheekbone. Something shifted in the air between them, something laden with potential.

"I've observed your evolving reactions to me this evening, John," Sherlock said, causing John to immediately tense up. This was it; Sherlock was either going to mock him for his foolish sentiment, or he was going to make an overture that John didn't think he was quite ready for.

Sherlock went on. "My conclusions have given me the courage to say something to you that I have been avoiding. I've been interested in entering into a romantic relationship with you for some time now."

John sucked in his breath. "B-but, you…. Your mother told me that you're asexual."

Sherlock raised a brow. "She's not entirely correct. It's true that sex has never held much appeal for me, in the past. Romance, on the other hand, appeals to me very much. With you. And I'd be willing to explore some of the sexual aspects as well. If you'd be interested, that is."

John swallowed. Myriad potential responses were on the tip of his tongue, and he wasn't quite sure which one was the correct one, or which one he actually wanted to say. Then, in an instant of clarity, Margery's smooth pleasant voice broke in on his memory:

_Love is love, John, in whatever form it takes. You'd be a fool to turn your back on it, when it's being offered to you so freely._

John took the plunge. "I… I think… I think, yeah, I'd be willing to give it a go, if you are. As long as it's not just an experiment, or because you're bored."

Sherlock sighed and brought their foreheads together. "I can't promise anything, John. I can't promise that I'll be able to give you what you need, or that I won't be a constant disappointment to you. But I want to try this. I want to try this with you. We could be… good, I think."

John smiled, and brought his hand up to mirror Sherlock's gesture. "Yeah. Me too." His other hand reached up to curl into Sherlock's hair and brought his head down to capture his lips.

And oh, _god_, Sherlock was a fantastic kisser. His lips parted under John's, and John graciously accepted the invitation. The kiss was soft and sweet at first, tentative tongues exploring and mapping new territory. Sherlock hummed in satisfaction as John ran a hand down his back, coyly skimming over the curve of his arse. John deepened the kiss as he pressed their bodies closer, seeking to connect them in the most intimate way possible. Heart rates increased as the kiss rapidly gained heat and intensity, blood singing in their veins, until they pulled apart, breathless and flushed.

As first kisses went, it had been glorious.

They grinned at each other. Sherlock said, "I say we forgo the pyjamas altogether."

John giggled. "Okay. I'm game," he replied before reaching up for another kiss.

* * *

Margery and Mycroft sat opposite each other, nursing their respective snifters of cognac. Mycroft raised his towards the discreet noises emanating from the adjoining room. "Check mate," he announced clearly to his mother. "Although Sherlock doesn't realise it yet. We did it, Mummy. Sherlock and John have finally succumbed. I knew it would happen, eventually, but it's gratifying to experience the fruits of our labour first-hand. How do you think he'll react to having lost the game to me again?"

Margery raised her own glass in salute. "I don't think Sherlock will mind conceding to you in this case. Now all we have to do is find someone for you, Mycroft."

Mycroft's smile faded. "I already found my soul mate, Mummy, many years ago. There will be no other, not in this lifetime. You of all people must understand that."

Margery gave her son a pained smile. "I do understand. It just makes me sad, seeing you alone and knowing that you don't have to be. You lost her so young. You should have the opportunity to connect like that with someone again."

Mycroft lowered his eyes. "I have my memories. They are sufficient. And knowing that my brother has finally given in – all that is important to me now is his happiness, and yours. Him being happy makes you happy, so my job is done." He smiled.

"Happy Christmas, son. May there be many more, for all of us."

"Happy Christmas, Mummy."

Mother and son continued to sit quietly in Mycroft's room, gazing out into the winter wonderland. The freezing rain had long since turned to snow; large, fluffy flakes came down and covered the landscape in a large, white blanket. The house, now blazing with red and green lights, sat in the centre of a picture-perfect, holiday greeting card setting. Everything was right with the world, for now. All was calm, and all was bright.

* * *

**Additional Notes: **I envisioned Margery Avery-Holmes in appearance as Rick Castle's mother, played by Susan Sullivan in the TV show "Castle".

I hope you enjoyed this. Happy Holidays, Merry Yuletide, and whatever else you may celebrate. May the new year shower you with blessings.


End file.
